Captives

FIFTY-FIVE

There were rumours of snow on the way and, as Governor Peter Nicholson made his way across the exercise yard of Whitely Prison, he could believe them. The wind was cutting across the open space at great speed, so cold it seemed to penetrate his bones. As he turned a corner it was like being hit in the face by a handful of razor blades.

If it snowed, as was threatened, there was every possibility that Whitely would be cut off. It had happened twice before in his time as Governor. Once, in the winter of 1983, the snow had drifted up to ten feet around the prison walls; teams of prisoners working virtually round the clock had been unable to keep open the single road that linked Whitely with the outside world. No food had got through and the men had been put on half-rations. There had been rumblings about a riot, but Nicholson had received the warnings with little fear. His men were well equipped to deal with any such eventualities. There were small stock-piles of tear gas in the prison to be used in the event of riots or large scale disturbances and Nicholson would have had no compunction about using them. It transpired that the snow went as quickly as it had come, the road was opened and supplies began getting through regularly again. Possible chaos had been averted.

Two years ago the same thing had happened, but for a shorter time. If anything, though, the more recent incident had proved more damaging. Prisoners, unable to exercise outside in sub-zero temperatures, had been allowed longer in the recreation rooms. Inevitably, men pushed together for long periods of time became edgy and, by the time the prison was freed from the grip of the snow, three men had been knifed (one of whom had lost a kidney) and another had been beaten severely with a pool cue.

Nicholson wondered, if the snow came, what he could expect this time.

He glanced to his left and saw the prison chapel, the weather-vane spinning madly in the powerful breeze. The skeletal trees in the graveyard rattled their branches in the wind, bowing almost to touch the ground as the breeze battered them.

Ahead of him was the hospital wing, the familiar grey of the stonework matching the colour of the sky.

Nicholson entered, feeling the warmth immediately. He paused by one of the radiators to warm his hands before approaching the doors that led into the infirmary.

Inside, the wind rattled windows in their frames. One or two heads turned to look at him as he strode through, glancing at the occupants of the place.

A man who'd been scalded in the kitchens by cooking oil. Another, who'd been injured in a brawl during exercise, sported fifty-eight stitches from the point of his chin to the corner of his left eye. When he left the infirmary he was due to spend two weeks in solitary. His assailant was already there.

Another man had his leg in plaster, recovering from a broken ankle. He regarded Nicholson coldly as the Governor passed by.

A man in white overalls was busy collecting dirty bed sheets and towels, pushing the excrement, and bloodstained linen into a trolley he was pushing up and down the ward. He stepped to one side as Nicholson approached him but made sure that he left a sheet soaked with urine dangling from the trolley, hoping that Nicholson would brush against it.

He didn't.

Ahead of him, the guard at the locked door stood up as Nicholson nodded. The warder found the key he sought, unlocked the door and allowed Nicholson through.

The ward beyond was empty but for ten beds, only one of which was occupied.

There were no windows in the walls, the only light being provided by the banks of fluorescents set high in the ceiling. Walls and floors were of the same uniform grey.

The one bed that was occupied was at the far end of the ward. As Nicholson headed towards it his shoes beat out a tattoo on the polished floor.

There was a man standing over the patient looking down at the face completely encased in bandages. The man held a clipboard he was scribbling on. He was tall, his hair grey, his features wrinkled. His cheeks were sunken and the onset of years had given him heavy jowls.

He turned to face Nicholson as the Governor drew closer. Nicholson thought that he looked vaguely pleased to see him; a small smile hovered on his dry lips.

'Can you spare me some time?' said Nicholson.

Doctor Robert Dexter nodded.